Mebbe—just mebbe—that favor would count for something…
THE BATTLE WAS finally over. It had been short and bloody, and the vast majority of the casualties belonged to the Samtvogel dwellers.
“When I was still a fairly young man,” Doc remarked to Krysty as they watched the Raw war party moving among the chilled Sunchildren to gather blasters or to chill any muties who might still be alive and therefore a threat, “when I was still in that time before the whitecoat horrors, they would take the Native American and treat him like this.”
“Uncle Tyas McCann used to tell us of those days,” the flame-haired woman replied. “He used to say that the law of dog-eat-dog was all that ruled. And the inherent stupeness of it was that he’d never seen a dog eat a dog unless they were put into a ring to fight for men.”
Doc smiled. “An interesting point, my dear. And appropriate, I think. Yes, in some ways. Fear can do strange things. Is this the way a man like Alien seems to rule the rest of the time?” he questioned, sweeping the area with the end of his walking stick. “Was it necessary to lay waste to their lives? Certainly, they had coexisted long enough.”
“Sure, but that was before the nuke.”
“Before the whitecoat horrors,” Doc said softly. “They will always return to haunt us, I believe.”
“And your point is?” Krysty asked. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want, or don’t like, just to survive. You know that as well as anyone.”
“But at what cost to ourselves?” Doc looked her in the eye. His own gaze was clearer and steadier than she had seen it for several days. “Consider that man,” he said slowly and with measure, indicating Alien. “A life spent living a certain way, questioned and perhaps destroyed in a night. Consider the people. This was… easier?”
Krysty looked at Raw’s baron. He stood in the center of the ville while his people scavenged, and a party of sec and some of the stronger ville dwellers— the blacksmith and the armorers among them—rigged the nuke with ropes and makeshift platforms to effect a way of carrying it back to Raw.
Alien was bowed, more like the vanquished than the victor. This was in contrast to Harvey, who was directing operations as though he, himself, had assumed the baronial role.
Krysty’s musings were stopped as Mildred came up to them.
“No sign of Dean,” she muttered shortly, keeping one eye on the party securing the nuke. “I’ve looked all over, and so has John. Haven’t seen Ryan or Jak yet, but I’ll bet you a whole heap of self-heats that I know what their answers will be if you ask them.”
Krysty nodded. “He never left Raw. That’s something I guess we’ll have to deal with when we get back. And quick, ’cause I think the power base may be shifting in the ville before long.” She gestured in Alien’s direction with a slight inclination of the head. Mildred took in the situation at a glance.
The conversation was repeated almost word for word when Ryan, and then Jak, returned from scouting the remains of Samtvogel. But Jak had something more to add.
“Only Sunchild alive.” He looked over to where the mutie baron was trussed, like a wild animal, tied to a stake driven into the ground while the nuke was secured. “Because Alien say.”
“What about any survivors?” Mildred asked.
“Didn’t you see them chilling any who hadn’t already bought the farm?” J.B. asked softly.
“I meant those who may have got out of the valley during the fighting.”
“None,” Jak said simply. He indicated the road out. “Sec chill anyone reach there.”
“Harvey’s certainly made sure of this one,” Ryan said grimly.
The one-eyed warrior led the way over to where the sec chief was preparing the nuke for the return journey. He seemed to be assuming sole charge of the nuke, while the baron—who should have been directing or overseeing operations—was standing to one side, seemingly lost in thought.
“Anything we can do to help?” Ryan asked.
Harvey cast an eye over the companions. “Not here,” he said with an undertone in his voice. “Mebbe you could help fire the place.”